Frost in January minus 20 for a week. Dead birds frozen on the branch—they fall with the first thaw like ripe fruit—death-ripened. We shall all end like them—just a stain in the snow.
Odd, isn't it? He really was the right man for her in a sort of way; but then as you know, it is a law of love that the so-called 'right' person always comes to soon or too late.
It’s only with great vulgarity that you can achieve real refinement, only out of bawdry that you can get tenderness.
I see artists as a great battalion moving through paint, words, music towards cosmological interpretation.
The sense of truth no matter how subjective is necessary for the experience of beauty.
The cocktail party - as the name itself indicates - was originally invented by dogs. They are simply bottom-sniffings raised to the rank of formal ceremonies.
Of women, the most we can say, not being Frenchmen, is that they are burrowing animals.
A critic is a lug-worm in the liver of literature.
Brazil is bigger than Europe, wilder than Africa, and weirder than Baffin Land.
The effective in art is what rapes the emotions of your audience without nourishing its values.
No history much? Perhaps. Only this ominous Dark beauty flowering under veils, Trapped in the spectrum of a dying style: A village like an instinct left to rust, Composed around the echo of a pistol-shot.
You see, nothing matters except pleasure - which is the opposite of happiness, its tragic part, I expect.
He thought and suffered a good deal but he lacked the resolution to dare--the first requisite of a practitioner.
All artists today are expected to cultivate a little fashionable unhappiness.
Truth is what most contradicts itself.
I am just a refugee from the long slow toothache of English life. It is terrible to love life so much you can hardly breathe!
They flower spontaneously out of the demands of our natures - and the best of them lead us not only outward in space, but inward as well.
Let us define 'man' as a poet perpetually conspiring against himself.
I suppose the secret of his success is in his tremendous idleness which almost approaches the supernatural.
Now stiff on a pillar with a phallic air nelson stylites in Trafalgar square reminds the British what once they were.
The steward, according to custom, had stopped all the clocks. This, in the language of Narouz, said "Your stay with us is so brief, let us not be reminded of the flight of the hours."
No one can go on being a rebel too long without turning into an autocrat.
Poetry is what happens when an anxiety meets a technique.
How grudging memory is, and how bitterly she clutches the raw material of her daily work.
Poverty is a great cutter-off and riches a great shutter-off.
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